


Push Away the Lines

by Melawen_C



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melawen_C/pseuds/Melawen_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking and sleeping and dreaming... sometimes the lines are too blurry for Will's liking.</p><div class="center">
  <p>_________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Push Away the Lines

Will glances at the clock when he hears the soft knock at his door. It’s just past midnight.

Winston leaves from his place near him beside the piano and pads over to the door, whining quietly. Will does not answer it.

He hears the click of the lock and then the soft steps of his approaching visitor. He makes no move to turn. Either it’s a dream, in which case he’s not sure he wants to see what lies behind him, or he’s awake and it’s the only person with a spare key. 

Hannibal sits down beside him. 

Awake, then. Perhaps. He still cannot tell.

“What were you playing?” Hannibal asks. Predictably, it feels like a loaded question.

“I wasn’t. Not feeling particularly inspired.”

He can sense Hannibal's smile.

“May I?” he asks, politely, always so politely.

Will laughs, a bit hysterically. “Of course you _play,_ ” he mutters, almost to himself.

Hannibal gives him a curious glance.

“' _Of course?_ '” he repeats, questioning, as soft notes burst into the air.

“Expensive clothes, gourmet meals, art, theater… you like the finer things in life.”

He can’t help the mockery in his tone as he says it. Hannibal doesn’t stop playing. It’s something by Liszt, Will thinks.

“I enjoy them, yes.” 

Will closes his eyes and sees it: himself, sweatpants and wrinkled old t-shirt, tense and sleepless; the clutter of the room, the creaking of the house… and Hannibal in the midst of it all, with his neatly combed hair and pressed shirt, fingers moving flawlessly over the keys.

 _One of these things is not like the others,_ he thinks, shaking his head. 

“What do you enjoy, Will?”

Will doesn’t answer him, just watches the tendons in his hands as he plays.

“You have dog hair on you,” he points out; the white of it is a glaring contrast against the dark fabric of Hannibal’s slacks.

Hannibal looks amused.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he says graciously, though they both know it’s a lie.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Will drinks the tea Hannibal makes for him although he doesn’t even know what flavor it is. Hannibal found it in the back of his cupboard, he thinks. The heat of the mug in his hands feels nice. 

He’s tracing the rim of it, around and around and around, when Hannibal touches his arm.

“You should try to sleep now.”

Will doesn’t know if he can. He says this aloud, but Hannibal merely helps him to his feet and sets his empty mug into the sink.

The next thing he feels is the soft weight of his blanket being tucked around him and a warm hand brushing his cheek.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Will stirs, restless. He blinks until he can read the numbers on the clock: three fifteen. He can feel one of the dogs curled up at the edge of the bed. His feet are cold; his stomach aches. 

There is a stag in his bathroom. 

Will presses his fingers to his temples. Walk, he needs to walk. 

Hannibal is asleep on the couch; his shoes sit neatly on the floor and he’s covered himself with an old quilt.

Will stands and watches. Although this is a dream, there’s something captivating about the sight his mind has constructed. He wonders what thoughts fill Hannibal’s head when he sleeps.

Walk, his body urges him, _walk._

The door gives a half-hearted creak as he pushes it open and steps onto the porch. The crisp air envelops him and he breathes it in, deeply. 

He turns toward a rustling noise and catches a glimpse of a snake as it slithers beneath the leaves; he thinks of Hannibal’s words. He thinks of Hannibal’s words with increasing frequency these days. Always there. Always there.

“Will.”

The voice in his thoughts materializes just behind his shoulder.

“Hannibal,” he replies. He glances down to see they are both barefooted and it makes him smile, for some reason.

Hannibal draws in a deep breath as well. “This is the first time you’ve called me by name.”

Will makes a face, surprised at himself more than the observation.

“I notice nearly everything about you,” Hannibal says, with frightening acuity.

“Isn't that an intimidating thought," he muses.

“You could see it as comforting,” Hannibal offers, blasé.

Will lets out a laugh. “I’ll stick with intimidating, thanks.”

“Very well, my good Will.”

He rolls his eyes at the endearment, if he can call it that; Hannibal has a way of making it sound patronizing, even in his dream.

“Come back inside,” he urges, taking hold of Will’s elbow.

“I need to walk.”

“You need to rest.”

“I am resting,” Will gripes, but even as he argues, he’s turning toward Hannibal, letting himself be led inside.

Warm, his hands are so warm. Will shivers.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The stag is gone, Will notes, as he returns to his bed.

His head hurts and his body aches and he’s leaning into Hannibal, seeking some sense of stability. It all feels… strange. Perhaps the strangest thing is that it doesn’t feel as strange as it should.

Will’s eyes flit back and forth from Hannibal’s mouth to his neck.

“No tie,” he says, frowning curiously.

Hannibal gives him a skeptical look. “It’s the middle of the night; you would prefer if I wore a tie?”

“No, it’s…” Will mutters, distracted, “I just… always imagine you with a tie.”

He shakes his head, realizing how that sounds, but Hannibal doesn’t react. 

“I wonder what you dream about,” Will whispers.

Hannibal’s eyes are dark. “You wonder… but you don’t ask. Why not?”

“Maybe I’m afraid of the answer,” Will admits aloud, stepping closer.

He presses his fingertips to the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt almost reverently before he begins to undo them. His hands are much steadier than his nerves would have him believe.

“Will,” Hannibal begins, but Will shakes his head, determined. 

“I need this.”

“ _Will,_ ” he persists, taking him by the shoulders firmly. Will sags into the touch.

“I’ve had nightmares for weeks,” he pleads in frustration, “why can’t I let myself have _one_ dream that won’t haunt me?”

“This isn’t a dream,” Hannibal tells him, shifting his fingers ever so slightly to rest behind Will’s collar bone. 

_So he can feel my pulse,_ Will realizes, focusing on the touch.

He thinks about Hannibal’s shoes on his floor, recalls sitting at the piano and, before that, making a phone call to try to ease the demons in his mind. A phone call that ended with _'please, I can’t sleep.'_

“Oh god,” Will mutters, stumbling back until he hits the wall.

He thought the sleepwalking and nightmares were bad enough, but this is more than just a loss of control. This feels like a betrayal by his own body. He risks a glance up. Hannibal stands there, with his feet bare and his shirt half undone, infuriatingly composed as he says, “There is no reason to be embarrassed.”

Will scoffs. 

“How magnanimous of you,” he retorts. “Not being the one who just humiliated himself, that’s easy for you to say.”

Amusement flickers across Hannibal's face. “Do you understand why I stopped you?”

Will thinks he must be missing the joke.

“Do you understand that I would not stop you now?" Hannibal assures him, gaze flickering to his mouth. "That is, if you still wish to continue.”

Will repeats the words in his head until the implication is undeniable. All the while, Hannibal watches him, patiently.

“You're not concerned about crossing some kind of boundary?” His throat feels tight; he struggles to swallow. 

“There are boundaries we’ve already crossed, Will. Ones that, perhaps, did not really exist for us in the first place.”

“Have you thought about this?” Will asks, because he needs to know, needs to hear him say it.

Hannibal takes a step closer, tongue tracing his lower lip.

“In more ways than you would believe.”

The onslaught of images those words conjure in Will’s mind leave him breathless in an instant. Breathless, and desperately hard. He exhales, shakily. 

He knows what Hannibal is waiting for him to say.

“Show me,” he whispers.

In the space of a heartbeat, Hannibal pins him against the wall. Will lets him, without hesitation.

One hand grips his jaw and holds him in place, and Will prepares himself for something equally as forceful, but Hannibal’s mouth is soft against his own. He kisses like he wants to memorize the taste of Will’s mouth. Between sleeplessness and arousal, it’s easy to lose himself in the sensation of Hannibal’s body against his, the slide of his tongue, and the stroke of his hands.

Hannibal touches him like he already knows his body, knows exactly what he wants. He finds a place on Will’s neck that makes him groan when he bites down and then his thigh is nudging between Will’s legs, giving him just the right friction, and Will pushes into him greedily.

He needs Hannibal here, close. So close.

It’s more than just an impulse. It’s deep and aching; he’s gasping but his lungs aren’t taking in enough air and all Will can focus on, all he can feel, are the points where Hannibal touches him. He steadies him, anchors him, and strips him bare in every way possible.

He maps Hannibal’s body with his hands in return, scratches fingers down his back as they drag each other toward the bed. Hannibal shudders and growls against his skin, and the rush of power Will feels at that nearly undoes him.

As Hannibal pushes him onto the bed, looking like a devastating force to be reckoned with, Will has a flash of something - dark and distant - but he forces it from his mind and revels in the hot press of skin against skin. 

After a moment, Hannibal pulls back, kneeling between Will’s legs, looking down at him. Will waits, with heavy-lidded eyes and trembling hands, and watches. Hannibal reaches down to give himself a firm squeeze and closes his eyes, like he’s trying to hold back, to reign in whatever desires are burning under the surface.

Will feels a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“Thought you were always in control,” he teases. 

“Perhaps I underestimated how tempting a sight you would make,” Hannibal murmurs, “spread out for me like this.”

Will lets out a laugh that’s more of a groan. 

Hannibal rubs his thumb in circles on Will’s knee and rakes his eyes greedily down the length of his body. His eyes darken and Will’s body hums with anticipation.

“Or maybe you overestimated your own restraint,” he manages.

Hannibal flashes him a smile that’s all teeth as he lowers his head to replace fingers with tongue.

“I want you to take me apart,” Will confesses, burying his hands in his hair.

Hannibal pins down his hips and licks a hot, wet line along the inside of Will’s thigh.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says.


End file.
